


If These Walls Could Speak

by yaycoffee



Series: This Is Not A Love Song (Except That It Is) [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Slice of Life, Snapshots, adventures in cohabitation, but pretty wonderful too, relationships are complicated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-07 08:14:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaycoffee/pseuds/yaycoffee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>221b Baker Street would have a few stories to tell.  Or, snapshots of a growing partnership.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If These Walls Could Speak

**Author's Note:**

> This is a stand-alone piece, but it is also works as an epilogue to [This Is Not A Love Song (Except That It Is)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/472145/chapters/817007). You do not even remotely need to read the first piece to understand this one, but I would be honored if you would.
> 
> So much gratitude to Fiona Fawkes, who is an amazing beta! I could not have done this without her help. Anything good about this story is pretty much because of her.

** Upstairs Bedroom **

John stands before his wardrobe running a towel over his hair.  A trickle of water drips from his eyebrow down the bridge of his nose, so he swipes at that, too.  Quickly, he shifts hangers from side to side, looking for his checkered button-down.  John knows it’s clean; he remembers ironing it a couple of days ago, and it is his only clean work shirt left.  The laundry really does want doing. 

He’s running terribly late already, and Sherlock has just got a text from Lestrade—a case—which means he is already working out the words he’ll use to sweet-talk Sarah into taking his afternoon patients—much harder now that he can’t actually _date_ her.  And, despite himself, that thought makes him smile, which turns into his thinking about Sherlock and skin and breath and _sodded dog_ , he hasn’t paid one _whit_ of attention to the clothes in front of him.  So, John pushes all the hangers back to one side and starts flicking through them again.  That shirt must be in here somewhere.

John catches movement from the corner of his eye, a flash of colour, blue and white.  He turns to see Sherlock just inside the door with the thing hanging loosely from his index finger, nimbly typing on his mobile with his free hand.  John snatches the shirt and throws it over his shoulders.  “Ta,” he says to Sherlock, who doesn’t look away from phone but quirks his lips into a quick smile anyway. 

After Sherlock has sent his text, he pockets his phone and steps into John’s personal space, reaching out to do up the last button. “I don’t know why you bothered looking in here.  Honestly, John, that shirt has been hanging on the back of the downstairs bedroom door since I brought it down yesterday afternoon.  As ever, you _see_ but you don’t—no. This time you _didn’t even see_.”

Sherlock’s expression is smug and getting worse by the second, so John clears his throat and sets firm the lines of his own face, moving in close enough to brush his lips just below Sherlock’s ear as he speaks.  “Oh, I think we both know that I _saw_ what was important.”  He lets his slow smile touch Sherlock’s skin, and Sherlock leans into him for just a second before stepping quickly away. 

John furrows his brow, watching as Sherlock steps fully in front of John’s wardrobe, eyes narrowed in the same way he looks at a crime scene—all outside distraction faded to nothing.  Sherlock hums, nods once to himself, and in one fell swoop, he gathers every article of clothing hanging on the wardrobe bar and carries them wordlessly from the room.

“Er, Sherlock.  What,” John asks, following closely behind, “are you doing with my things?” 

Sherlock does not answer and does not stop until he deposits the entire lot onto his bed downstairs.  John fixes him with a look, but Sherlock ignores it, has already shifted his focus to his own wardrobe.  Sherlock takes a deep breath before stepping inside. 

John watches him push his suit jackets tightly together on one side.  He then snaps up an entire row of evenly spaced £200 shirts and transfers them by bookended hangers to the bar with the jackets.  They fit, but it’s snug. 

Sherlock sidesteps John when he emerges, gathering the clothes from the bed and carrying them to the wardrobe, where he hangs them in the newly emptied space.

“Hmm,” Sherlock says, mostly to himself.  “That should leave enough room for the laundry you’ve got in the hamper, and if I move these upstairs,” he says, snatching up the section of police and firefighter’s uniforms, several overlarge parkas, four sets of workman’s coveralls (electrician, plumber, British Telecom, and auto mechanic), pastel scrubs in at least five different colours, and what looks to John like a figure skating costume.  He dumps them unceremoniously on the floor just outside before continuing, “the rest of your things will fit rather nicely, I should think.”  He meets John’s eyes with a brief smile.

“Sorry, Sherlock, but… What?”

“Oh, stop being purposefully obtuse, John.  Clearly—” Sherlock cuts himself off for a moment.  He looks to the wardrobe and back to John, swallowing once.  “It is a waste of time and energy for you to keep your things all the way upstairs.  There is more than enough room here.”  He puts his hands in his trouser pockets, pinning John with his stare.

John shakes his head, reckons that this must be the way to ask your flatmate to _move in_ — you know, if you’re Sherlock Holmes, and if the idea of actually _asking_ would be of any concern at all.  John sighs.  Sherlock _is_ right, of course; he hardly ever uses his own room for anything other than changing clothes these days. 

He thinks about waking with Sherlock warm against his side, about what it would be like to continue doing so, officially, for the next forever.  The thought makes him almost deliriously happy.  He does check his smile, just a bit, just to keep Sherlock from getting too big a head about this particular deduction.  The whole relationship thing was supposed to be John’s area, after all, and John has to at least try to keep _something_ for himself. 

“Yes,” John says with a nod.  His smile is back when he scrubs a hand over his mouth.  “All right.  Yeah."  And he absolutely _sees_ the brightening twinkle in Sherlock's eyes at that.

 

 

** Bathroom **

Sherlock cups his hands with water and rinses the blood from his brow.  Hands braced on either side of the sink, he watches for a moment as the water circles down the drain.  Its movement is like a sick sort of kaleidoscope print in pinks and reds of varying saturations. 

The second Sherlock hears the door shut downstairs, he gropes blindly for a towel, a flannel, _anything_ to try and make this mess less alarming.  He reaches for the hook on the back of the door, fingers pushing past John’s checked shirt to find what he needs.  Placing the flannel from the sink to his side, he works as best he can one-handedly to clear the smears of blood on the counter and sink rim with a towel.  He’s got most of the big ones, but not everything before—. 

It’s only seconds later when John’s voice is calling, “Sherlock?” from the living room.  Sherlock frowns at his reflection, at the row he knows is coming.  John will be so angry that Sherlock hadn’t texted him for this.  But, the thing is, had he _known_ , he would have called John in—there simply wasn’t time.

John is already talking to him from the living room, voice edged with annoyance as he’s saying, “You are like living with a bloody toddler sometimes, you know that?” and Sherlock knows better than to give into his instinct to block the door with his foot when it starts to open. 

John’s reflection appears behind his, but he hasn’t really seen him yet; he’s looking instead at the shoe and shirt he has gathered in his hands.  “You can’t just leave a trail of clothes as they fall.  I nearly tripped to my death over your—”  He cuts himself off, frowning when he notices the bit of blood marking his hands where he’d been holding the shirt.

When John looks up at Sherlock properly, his eyes travel from the bleeding gash on his forehead down to the more serious one at his side.  John’s face shifts through several emotions in a very short amount of time, flashing from confusion to worry to anger, settling finally—mostly—on worry.  “ _What_ the hell?” he asks now, tossing the shoe and shirt back into the corridor.

“John, I—” but John cuts him off with a look, silently grabbing the blood-stained flannel Sherlock has pressed against the gash on his flank. 

John inhales sharply, face going momentarily slack before he fixes his lips into a tight line.  His hands steady Sherlock at the hip while examines the wound.  The warmth from his touch lingers on Sherlock’s bare skin even after John pulls away to retrieve the medical kit from the cupboard under the sink. 

Sherlock wants to explain, so he begins again, “John,” he says, but John just shakes his head no, clearing his throat.  “John,” Sherlock repeats. 

John stills and brings himself up to full height.  “Sherlock,” he says, voice low, anger now eclipsing the worry from before.  “We _will_ discuss this, to be sure.  But the only thing I need for you to tell me at the minute is what did this.”

“Pocket knife,” Sherlock responds.

“And, why aren’t you in hospital?”

“Why would I wait hours for treatment when I have skilled doctor at home?  I made Lestrade bring me here.”

John pauses, taking a moment—licks his lips, half-shakes his head, pinches the bridge of his nose.  “I am _very_ angry with you right now, but you need stitches here, so—let me work.”

Sherlock purses his lips further into a frown, nods wordlessly, and John begins pulling supplies from the bag.  He lays them out in a neat line before rolling his sleeves and washing his hands at the sink, carefully scrubbing between his fingers, around the nails, down past his wrists.  He snaps on a pair of gloves and begins to work. 

In the end, Sherlock required four stitches for the cut on his side and a butterfly plaster for the one above his eye.  The rest of it wasn't so bad, easily cleaned with soap and water.  Sherlock shifts in his seat on the edge of the tub, watching as John re-packs the bag and carefully disposes of the gloves, gauze, and needle. 

That done, John sits on the closed seat of the toilet and says, “Now.  Talk.”  His eyes are blazing.

Sherlock looks down, hesitating a moment, frustrated at being unsure how to start. “Hell,” he growls, rubbing at the hair on the back of his head.  Then, he takes a breath and looks John square in the eye.  He may as well simply start at the beginning. 

“Lestrade sent me the crime scene photos from the Sinclair murder.  The pictures on the mantelpiece were wrong.  Large holiday photo in an overlarge frame.  It was there when we went to investigate but gone in the crime scene photo.  None of the others had changed, but _that one_ was gone.  Why?  People rarely move items of sentiment after they’ve fixed a place for them, especially when attached to a place of such household prominence as the mantle.  And then it hit me—the necklace.  In the framed photo, Mrs Sinclair was wearing it, but it wasn’t on her body when she was found.  Why would the only nice piece of jewelry she owned, clearly a gift from her husband, not be found on her when she died?”

Sherlock stops, half expecting John nod in encouragement, perhaps interject his own thoughts, but the only thing he does is set the line of his jaw, lift his chin. 

Sherlock lets out a breath and keeps going, losing a little of the triumphant steam he’d built earlier.  “I had a suspicion that I would find the necklace at the home of her best friend, who was clearly having an affair with Sinclair.  I went when I knew she would be out.  It _was_ there, and I rang Lestrade.  But as it turns out, Sinclair had followed me.” 

Sherlock pauses a moment before continuing, speaking very softly, eyes now fixed on a corner of the rug, away from John, unable to meet his eyes any longer.  “He had a knife; he surprised me—got in a couple good licks, but in the end he wasn’t a very skilled fighter.  I had him down and handed over to Lestrade fairly quickly.”

John takes a deep breath, doesn’t say a word.  Standing, he takes the half-step that separates them and hovers in Sherlock’s personal space.  Sherlock looks up at him from his seat, but John guides him up by the arm.  Then, John leans impossibly closer in the small space.  He stays still there for a beat before going into Sherlock’s trouser pocket, smoothly pulling out his mobile.  He clears his throat and hits the button that brings it to life, LED setting the shadows on his face into even starker relief. 

“Well,” John says flatly.  “It works.”  He turns the screen off, and drops it back into Sherlock’s pocket. 

“John,” Sherlock says.

“No,” John says, voiced raised.  He breathes and lifts a finger, calming his voice a bit.  “You know what?  No.”   He turns to walk away but then spins back around on his heel, hands balled into tight fists at his side.  “I cannot believe you, Sherlock!  I cannot _fucking believe_ that after _everything_ , you couldn’t even be arsed to send me a goddamn _text message_ to let me know you were walking into—”  He’s shaking his head and backing out of the bathroom again. 

Sherlock feels the loss of John’s body heat physically; the chill wraps around his bare chest like a vice, and he doesn’t like it.  Sherlock follows him out immediately, notes the military posture in John’s stride, cringes as he stumbles over Sherlock’s shoe in the corridor. 

“Bloody _hell_!” John bellows, and he hurls the thing into the living room, where it bangs against the wall.

“John,” Sherlock repeats, daring now to reach out a hand to his shoulder.  John spins around in an instant, bodily corralling Sherlock against the wall.

His voice is not much louder than a whisper when he speaks.  “No.  Sherlock—I can’t have this conversation with you again.  What can I _possibly_ say that you don’t already know, that I haven’t said before?  What can I possibly…” and at this, the fight seems to have left him entirely; he visibly deflates, chuckling humourlessly as he drops his head.

Sherlock hates the defeated John in front of him, hates that this is not the first time they’ve had this row, hates _himself_ a little, and for once, he understands _why_ people apologise.  He grips John’s arms just below his shoulders and leans down, bringing their foreheads together. 

“I am sorry,” he says, and he means it.  When John lifts his head, he opens his mouth to speak, but Sherlock kisses him, pressing their lips together softly.  John inhales and stands straighter, and in the next breath, he is pushing into the kiss, too.  Sherlock forgets for a minute about the stitches at his side, and he twists the wrong way. At his shudder, John breaks away and meets his gaze. 

“It hurts?” he asks, ghosting his fingers around the white edge of the tape there.

Sherlock nods.

“Good,” John says.  He brushes his nose along Sherlock’s cheek as he brings his lips to his ear.  “Don’t. Do it.  Again,” and he walks away toward the kitchen, where Sherlock listens to him start the kettle.

 

 

** Kitchen **

The kettle grows loud—water molecules vibrating from the bottom, approximately seventy seconds to boiling.  Despite what John thinks (And says.  Repeatedly.), Sherlock does _know_ how to work the kettle.  He also knows where they keep the mugs _and_ the coffee granules _and_ the sugar.  He simply prefers for John to make it, which he always does, if he’s here—which he isn’t.

Sherlock is _bored_.  Not shooting-the-walls-bored, no—not yet, but he has been made to wait (he really should have timed the events of this infernal day better).  He must wait for cultures to incubate, he must wait for Lestrade to text him with lab results (which will unquestionably be wrong, hence his own set of cultures on the opposite counter), and he must wait for John’s shift to be over.  He scowls into his mug.  He hates waiting.  He glances at the microwave clock.  Good.  John will be home soon—an hour at the most. 

His stomach growls, but he ignores it.  When it does it again a couple seconds later, it becomes _annoying_.  He pushes away from the counter to find something to make it stop.  A quick check of the fridge shows nothing but his tissue samples, a dozen eggs, milk, veg, more veg, a couple of off satsumas (interesting—possibly good for mould study later), packet of bangers, bacon, some chicken, five varieties of jam, and John’s beers.  He closes the door with a thump, letting out groan of frustration.  Why is there never _anything_ to eat in this flat?  At a loss, he strides back to the worktop to check his cultures.  No change yet.  Dull.  He sinks onto his stool and lowers his head against the counter, rolling it slowly against the smooth surface.

He only lifts it at the sound of the door opening.  “John,” he calls.  John’s early.

“Oh, no, dear—it’s just me.”  Mrs Hudson.  She’s carrying a couple of large posted envelopes.  “These came while you were out.  When heard you banging around up here—figured I might as well bring them up before this old hip packs it in for the night.”  She pats at her hip with her free hand and sets the envelopes down on the counter.  She looks round the kitchen and says, “Oh, my—what have you started with now?”

“Testing bacteria type from soil samples taken at a crime scene.  Waiting.”  He spits the last word out like it tastes bad.  “It’s _boring_.”

“You never did have much patience,” she says, chuckling.  She pats him on the arm, and he allows her a brief smile when he squeezes her hand.  His stomach growls again.

“Are you still not eating, Sherlock?  I thought John was taking better care of you these days, at least.”

“Well, he’s not here yet.  We’ve nothing to eat.  It’s tedious.”

“Don’t be silly.  John just came in with the shopping yesterday.  Surely you’ve got something around here.”  She crosses to the fridge and opens it.  The contents hadn’t magically turned edible in the five minutes since he’d last looked, but Mrs Hudson is rummaging around, mumbling _oh, dear—are those human!_ , and then she’s pulling chicken from the shelf and some of the veg from the crisper. 

“Honestly, Sherlock,” she says.  “You’ve got plenty of food in here.”  She’s now bustling through the kitchen, pulling saucepans and baking dishes from the cupboards.  “Wash your hands and come help me with this.”  She shoves a saucepan at him. 

He blinks at her once, but complies.  She tells him to fill the saucepan with water, so he does.  “No, not that full, dear,” she says.  “You don’t want it boiling over.”  He tips some water back into the sink and shows her.  She nods, smiling.

“Now,” she says—pushing a bunch of carrots towards him, “peel these with this.”  She hands him a funny little tool with two blades and continues, “and then cut them so that they’re about this long.”  She holds her fingers up to show him the length.  She’s busy with chicken and spices (when did they get spices?) so he sets to work.

When he’s done with the carrots, she scoops them up and puts them in the saucepan with the water.  “There’s rice in that cupboard there,” she says, indicating the correct one with her index finger.  “Measure it out so you’ve got double the amount of water as rice.  I usually just use a teacup,” she says, and he does that, too.

Before long, the kitchen smells of cooking food, and Mrs Hudson is chattering away about her lunch with Mrs Turner next door.  Sherlock takes a step toward his experiment, checking the dishes at the microscope.  Mrs Hudson, undeterred, continues her story.  Apparently, the _married ones_ had quite the domestic a couple nights back, and one has moved out.  “The heavy one left in the middle of the night with the dog under his arm, wearing only a pair of bright red pants!” 

“I’m not surprised,” Sherlock says, distracted by scraping a bit from the dish onto a slide.  “Nigel’s been having an affair with the groomer for months.  I’m surprised Keith hadn’t chucked him sooner.”

“That _would_ explain why that poor animal has been shaved to its skin.  Oh, bless!”

They are laughing lightly when the door opens again.  John.

He walks into the kitchen saying, “What in Heaven is going on in here?”  He’s smiling.  “Is that cooking?  Sherlock, did _you_ cook?”  He walks to Sherlock, dropping a kiss on his cheek.  “Honey, I’m home.  There better be a martini in a chilled glass waiting for me behind that microscope, or this whole arrangement is _off_.”

“Mrs Hudson did most of it,” Sherlock replies with a dismissive wave.

“Oh, now,” Mrs Hudson says, flapping her hands.  “It was nothing.  I’ll let you two boys get on with your evening.”

“No, Mrs Hudson,” John says, crossing to a drawer to for the silverware.  “You should stay—enjoy the spoils of your labour.   Look,” he continues, setting forks and knives in the centre of the crowded table.  “I’ve already set your place.  It’s settled.”

“Well, all right,” she says, and she moves back to the oven to retrieve the chicken.  John continues to clear the table, carefully moving Petri dishes and papers to the counter space that he’d set aside for science equipment ( _We’ve got to keep all this stuff separate from the food, Sherlock_ ).  In no time, it’s set properly for three places.

Eventually, the three of them tuck into their dinners, with Mrs Hudson telling another tale of neighborhood scandal involving “that quiet young man who lives up the street—you know, the one _with the_ _earrings_.”  Sherlock shifts so that his leg presses against John’s under the table, and John smiles warmly at him. 

“This was lovely, Mrs Hudson,” John says, finishing off the last bite on his plate.  “Really, very nice.”

“Thank you, dear,” she says, dotting her mouth with her napkin.  “But now, I do believe it is time for my evening soother.  Do you want help with the dishes?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” John says with a wink, taking her plate to the sink. 

She stands from her spot, swaying a bit, and she presses a hand sharply to her hip.  “Damn this thing,” she says softly.  Sherlock is at her side in a moment, steadying her by the elbow. 

“I’ll walk you downstairs,” he says.  She begins to fuss and tut and wave him off, but Sherlock says, “I must insist.”

She acquiesces without much more ado.  “Such a good boy,” she says, patting his arm as she takes it.

Sherlock walks her down to her own flat.  As they make their way down the stairs, she does lean into him rather heavily. 

“Thank you,” he tells her at her door.  “For everything.”

“Oh,” she says.  “Think nothing of it.  Now, shoo—get on.”  Her eyes are heavy, but she is smiling when she closes the door.

When he gets back to the kitchen, John is elbow deep in soapy water.  He’s rinsing the plates and setting them on the draining board.  Sherlock stands in the doorway for a moment, content in watching him.

“Oi,” John says, turning round.  “Are you just going to stand there all night?  Come on.”  He tosses a dish towel at him, which Sherlock catches deftly.  “Make yourself useful, and dry.”  There is a hint of laughter in his tone that feels so much like home.  Sherlock steps beside him and takes up a plate, still warm from the sink, and he runs the towel around its curve. 

He steps near enough to John that they are touching, and Sherlock gives in to the impulse to get even closer.  He leans down and buries his face in John’s collar, inhaling the lingering scent of aftershave and tea, the bap he had for lunch and the warm, spicy smell under it all that is just what John smells of.  He presses his lips there, and John twists, facing him.  He slides wet, soapy fingers just behind his ear as thumbs rub softly at his temples.

“What’s all this about, then?” John asks.

Sherlock shrugs.  “I think—I’m—happy.”

  

 

** Living Room **

John comes home exhausted from the surgery.  In a fair turn of _quid pro quo_ , he took Sarah’s afternoon patients last minute, which meant an extra hour and a half with all the added paperwork.  He didn’t mind doing it—lord knows she’s covered for him enough times, but he was up late the night before finishing up a case with Sherlock, and now he is _cream crackered_. 

He switches on the lamp and heads straight to the kitchen, bypassing the kettle for the fridge.  Sod tea, he needs a beer. He is too tired to even comment about the uncovered bowl of ears next to the milk.  He simply shuts the door, pops the top off the bottle, and takes a large swig.  John hasn’t been home a full minute before the sound of Sherlock’s violin fills the air.   John doesn’t recognise this one; he was never good at Name That Composer.  It is nice, though.

In the living room, Sherlock is playing at the open window.  He is still in his day clothes, save for the suit jacket now laid neatly over his desk chair and the dressing gown fluttering about his calves.  The breeze comes in lazily, just strong enough to slightly stir the curls at Sherlock’s ears and the crown of his head.

Even though he hasn’t said hello or even turned round, John knows that Sherlock knows he’s there because the tune changes smoothly to one he _does_ recognise, which makes him smile.  John takes a seat at the sofa and sips his beer, just listening—well, and watching, too. 

He plays _this_ like he plays Mozart or Vivaldi, with care and nuance, and John shouldn’t be surprised, but he is.  The sound warms the flat, makes the light glow softer, the air more comfortable—or maybe that’s the beer; John doesn’t care. 

Watching Sherlock play like this, when he’s not trying to be a git, not manic with the work—when he’s _just playing_ —is one of the more beautiful things John thinks he will ever be privileged enough to witness from this mad, impossible man.  Sherlock shifts his weight smoothly as he plays, rocking from the balls of his feet to his heels, and it is mesmerising.  He moves with the grace of a dancer, the lines of his shoulders and back filling with the sound coming from his instrument, swelling and waning in time with the tune’s rhythm and crescendo and something _else,_ something _other,_ and through it, John can practically see his heart laid bare. 

Sherlock finishes the song and finally turns fully around, setting his instrument in its case on the desk.  As he settles next to John on the sofa, John puts his drink on the coffee table and drags Sherlock in for a kiss by the collar of his dressing gown.

“Hello,” John says.  “Didn’t take you for a Radiohead fan.”

“I’m not,” Sherlock replies, lips quirking into a quick smile, hands still warm at the nape of John's neck.  “But you are.  You nearly always play that song after a particularly long work day, so I learnt it.”  He’s looking at John like a child showing his drawing to the teacher. 

“It was lovely, thank you,” John says, and he leans into Sherlock’s side, picking his beer back up from the table.  Sherlock wraps an arm around his shoulders, opening the space for John to settle in properly, so he does.  Sherlock flips on the telly with the remote, and he settles it onto a documentary that John couldn’t care less about, but it doesn’t matter.  He watches anyway.

The quiet sound of the television, the feel of the cool bottle being pulled gently from his fingers, and the even beating of Sherlock’s heart beneath his ear are the last things he’s aware of before it all fades to nothing.

 

 

** Downstairs Bedroom **

John startles awake when his head hits the coffee table.  This is the third time in an hour he’s nodded off while trying to sort through the Tube tickets and surveillance photos laid out before him.  Sherlock, on the other hand, is fully alert, still standing at the wall to the right.  He is eying the elaborate jumble of photographs and receipts, lab results and handwritten notes he’s pinned over nearly the entire thing.  He stares, unmoving, hands steepled beneath his chin while he looks and looks and _looks_ at evidence that only changes when Sherlock shuffles and regroups it all, re-pinning everything again in different places. 

They have been working this case for over a week, and John has been _lucky_ if he’s been able to work in two, three, four hours of sleep each night.  Serial killer.  Only two bodies so far, but _pieces_ of strippers keep turning up along the Thames.  They’ve chased wild geese across the city on foot—twice, spent countless hours in Molly’s lab, broken into an office in Islington, a flat in Lambeth, and spent more than half their month’s taxi budget in the past three days alone.  Now, they’re back at the flat, and Sherlock hasn’t spoken a word in sixteen hours.

John rubs at his eyes, stretches, and stands—a futile attempt to work some blood back to his brain and body.  His ears are full of the white noise that comes from sleep deprivation, and his stomach is sour with too much caffeine and not nearly enough food.  He stumbles to the kitchen for a glass of water, but his feet carry him even further, all the way to the threshold of the bedroom at the end of the corridor.  There, the moonlight shines through the window and onto the bed like a beacon; the duvet sings to him a Siren song that no amount of beeswax could stifle. 

Of course, Sherlock has him by the arm before he can get even two whole feet in the door.  He spins John around, all manic, explosive energy.  Up close, he reeks of cigarette smoke, and when he kisses John soundly on the mouth, he tastes of Marlboros and stale coffee.  He is grinning like a bloody madman.  He _is_ a bloody madman. 

“Come on, John,” he says.  “I’ve _got_ him!”  And then he’s gone, leaving John alone in the doorway to wonder what the hell just happened.  John looks about for his shoes for a minute before he remembers he’s still wearing them, and Sherlock’s voice is already shouting up at him from the front door.  “John!  The taxi is _waiting_!”

.....

It’s nearly nine hours later when they return, bodies battered and dripping with rain—but they are laughing when they come through the door, stomachs full of orange beef and kung pao chicken.  221B is warm and dry, and though the lingering high of a finished case may be keeping their spirits up, John has already started to feel his earlier weariness creeping back.  Sherlock immediately beelines toward the bathroom, dropping clothes along the way like a trail of breadcrumbs. 

Normally, this would be annoying, but not just now.  John watches with a secret smile as Sherlock’s body is slowly revealed to him: pale neck, bony ankles, smooth expanse of back—and John completely loses himself in his thoughts for a moment while he stares.

The hissing of the shower brings him back to the present, so he shakes his head a little, chuckling lightly as he busies himself with gathering up Sherlock’s discarded clothes—jacket, shoes, shirt.  As he’s stooping to pick up the socks, the bruise below his ribs not-so-subtly reminds him that he shouldn’t bend that way.  He quickly decides that Sherlock can get the rest himself. 

Abandoning the lot, John pulls his own jumper over his head as he starts to the bedroom.  He deposits the shoes in the wardrobe, the clothes in the bedroom hamper (where they _go_ ), and because Sherlock has taken his from the peg, he goes off to find a towel in the linen cupboard. 

Finally, the shower shuts off, and John opens the bathroom door to a wall of steam.  Sherlock brushes a hand across his back as they pass each other in the small space, and John notices the careful way he’s holding his shoulder, the way that his feet are dragging a bit as he walks.  John showers quickly because Sherlock has used most of the hot water—but it’s fine, really, because being upright is becoming more challenging by the second anyway.  He towels off and pads to the bedroom to put on his pajamas.

On the bed, Sherlock is flat on his back, blinking slowly at the ceiling.  He stays just like that even after John has crawled in beside him.  And when John _finally_ pulls his feet up, lays his head on the pillow, his muscles feel as if they are floating away from his heavy, heavy bones; even the tips of his toes are exhausted. 

Sherlock remains motionless, but John can nearly see the images projected against the ceiling where Sherlock is staring—that bloody great brain of his stubbornly refusing to let go.  They are both so tired, but Sherlock is buzzing, electric, unable to cut the circuit.  He is practically _vibrating_. 

It is then that Sherlock moves—only his head, turning owl-like toward John, eyes especially pale in the diffused afternoon light.  He trains his gaze on John, eyes flickering across his face, collecting data on God knows what.  John blushes under the scrutiny, even now, even after all this time.  Sherlock breathes out once, a long rush of mint scented air that dances across John’s face, fills his lungs. 

John means to comfort him, longs for all the too-tight lines of him to relax, for his mind to quiet enough to allow it.  So John lifts a leaden arm to Sherlock’s chest, thumb brushing across soft tee-shirt cotton, and that is all it takes.  Sherlock pulls him by the bicep, and then John is on top of him, surrounding him, surrounded by him.

He slides his leg between Sherlock’s as he kisses his mouth.  Sherlock bucks his hips instantly, seeking friction, and he tosses his head back with a groan when he finds it.  John takes the opportunity to scrape the underside of his jaw with his teeth before running his tongue along the same path.  Sherlock’s skin is warm, and the pulse that throbs at his neck tastes like it smells—of posh soap, eucalyptus and lavender, of home. 

John skims fingers under Sherlock’s shirt to find more skin.  Stomach, ribs, sternum—he dips his head and presses his mouth against them all.  John kisses Sherlock’s chin and the long line of his throat before he tugs the shirt all the way off, and Sherlock makes sure that John’s is not long to follow. 

From chest to hip, it’s all warm skin pressed together, and Sherlock runs long fingers over John’s bare shoulder blades, slides them back up to scrape fingernails down the curve of his triceps.  Those pale fingers are so gentle as they pause to still the man above, carefully tracing the fresh bruise blossoming over John’s abdomen.  John kisses the tip of Sherlock’s nose to let him know that he’s all right.  It’s all right.

Sherlock didn’t exactly come through this one unscathed either; the new mark high on his shoulder is dark and angry.  John runs the pads of his thumbs around the bruise before laying a feather light kiss just to its side.  Sherlock’s fingers run through the short hair at the back of his head, and John moves lower, lets his tongue find a nipple while his hands find the waistband of Sherlock’s pajama bottoms—and what’s underneath. 

Sherlock lifts his hips, and John tugs, slithers down Sherlock’s lanky frame, letting his cheek and chin trail across the inches, feet, miles, of newly exposed skin as he slides the bottoms the rest of the way off.  On his way back, he presses his open mouth against Sherlock’s calf, inside his knee, to the soft, pale skin of his thigh, to his hip and his navel.  And then he lowers his forehead to Sherlock’s chest as he touches again, wrapping his hand just so, with purpose; he knows all the right places by now. 

He lifts his head when Sherlock’s breathing grows faster, when his heels dig deeper into the mattress.  John brushes his nose along the shell of Sherlock’s ear, whispers into it those things that are both utter nonsense and absolute truth (it’s all the same, isn’t it?  It _is_.).  When Sherlock cries out, John swallows that sound with his mouth, tasting it, devouring it, until it becomes a part of his very own anatomy ( _always his_ ).

Sherlock places one last kiss, uncoordinated and sloppy, to the side of John’s neck before wrapping a long arm around his waist.  He is melting into John’s side, asleep already when John runs a discarded tee shirt over his chest and pulls the duvet back around them both, letting his own exhausted body finally sink down as well. 

In the grey afternoon light, John fights the heavy lids of his eyes for just a little while longer to follow the mad lines of Sherlock’s dark curls against the pillow, the plane of a cheekbone, the shadows beneath his eyelashes.  This madman is his miracle.  John is weightless as he listens to Sherlock’s even breathing, to the soft pattering of rain against the window, to the far away rush of tyres across wet pavement.  When he shuts his eyes again, he sleeps.

~The End~

 

**Author's Note:**

> The Radiohead song that Sherlock plays is ["Optimistic"](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i-KSrcyF6qQ) from _Kid A_. Mostly because it's awesome, and I think it would sound KILLER coming out of Sherlock's violin.
> 
> This is the last in a series of prompts from love_bingo over on livejournal. The prompt for this piece was "Our House."


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